It was not a very definite one, it was rather vague, but it was the most reasonable one he could think of.
There in Warden Forest, living as the daughter of a woodman, who was himself ignorant of her legitimacy, was the girl. I am sorry to say that he cursed her as he thought of her. Where was the will? Whoever had got it would no doubt come to him first to make terms, and, failing to make them, would go to the real heiress.
Stephen, quick as lightning, resolved to take her away.
But where?
He did not much care for the present, so that it was somewhere under his eyes, or in the charge—the custody, really—of a trustworthy friend.
The only really trustworthy friend whom Stephen knew was his mother.
“Yes, that is it,” he muttered. “Mother shall take this girl as—as—a companion. Poor mother, some great ignorant, clodhopping wench who will frighten her into a nervous fit. Poor mother!” And he smiled with a feeble, malicious pleasure.
There are some men who take a delight in causing pain even to those who are devoted to them.
“Dear mother,” he wrote, “I have to send you the sad news of my uncle’s death. Need I say that I am utterly overwhelmed in grief. I have indeed lost a friend!” (“The malicious, mean old wolf,” he muttered, in parenthesis.) “How good he was to me! But, mother, even in the midst of our deepest sorrows, we must not forget the calls of charity. I have a little duty to perform, in which I require your aid. I fear it will necessitate your making a journey to Wermesley station on this line. If you will come down by the 10:20 on Wednesday, I will meet you at Wermesley station. Do not mention your journey, my dear mother; we must not be forgetful that we are enjoined to do good by stealth.
“In great affliction,
“Your loving son,
“Stephen Davenant.”